


The Scepter and the Serpent, A Gondolin Mystery in Three Parts

by Gloromeien



Series: Lord of the Rings Mystery Series [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-31 02:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12122748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gloromeien/pseuds/Gloromeien
Summary: The King enlists Glorfindel and Ecthelion’s help in unmasking a palace thief. Tracy/Hepburn-like antics ensue (or so a humble author hopes).





	1. Chapter 1

The Untold Annals of the First Age present…

The Scepter and the Serpent  
A Gondolin Mystery

Part One: Hiss

At the fifth round of pounds on the door, Ecthelion finally grappled into wakefulness, though the climb up the misty mount through ever denser clouds of slumber had been arduous indeed. His subconscious must have considered the reverberating knocks as but echoes of the painful throb currently thundering in his head; the result, no doubt, of imbibing another ill-advised jug of moonshine at one of Galdor’s gaming nights. The House of the Tree was as renowned for its dubious spirits as the Harps were for cheats, which led to Ecthelion concentrating on the position of that orc-bait Salgant’s hands and not the efficiency of the servants, who were under strict instructions to well liquefy every guest of means. Regardless, he should have been more circumspect, since his innate sense of righteousness tended to have unforeseen, and rather ignominious, consequences, such as the state he presently found himself in. 

He was, once again, naked and nauseated in Glorfindel’s bed, with not a trace of memory as to what provoked him to venture there. 

The first such incident was easily dismissed as a spate of drunken folly, for what two fond warrior fellows had not stumbled upon one another in the wee hours of a night of rampant debauchery? Even Glorfindel himself had appeared tense, as well as egregiously apologetic, blaming, though Ecthelion did not, himself. The second he had chalked up to grief, for the eldest of his advisors had suffered a tragic accident and the Lord of the Fountain had done everything in his power to drown his sorrows in a vat of alcohol after the funeral rite, with his dear, anxious friend Glorfindel perhaps too dedicated to enacting the part of nursemaid. After the third, however, he had sworn off drink for a six-month, since the randomness and callousness of these occurrences were bordering on dishonorable. He was near to treating his sword-brother’s residence like a brothel, as he was of no mind for courtship, of Glorfindel or of anyone, not to mention that his friend deserved far better than him. 

Alas, he had grown complacent. He had thought the problem solved by abstinence and temperance, considered himself counseled enough to accept Galdor’s latest invitation before he stopped forwarding them altogether. Regretfully, there was also a smidge of vanity in the mix, for he did relish proving his mastery at the Battle Game, as Glorfindel, the only truly threatening opponent among the House Lords, preferred to try his luck at dice. Yet he was paying for his arrogance now, for his lack of vigilance over the urges that ever overtook him whilst intoxicated, though why these should center on his most loyal and redoubtable of friends, he hadn’t the foggiest notion. Still, he had no desire to sift through his pack of options – availability, handsomeness, rumored prowess, kindliness – to uncover the likeliest sketch of his designs. 

At present, focus was far more necessary, as there was not only an unremembered night of passion to dismiss as politely as possible, but also some gossipy interloper to evade. For if they were seen in such intimate circumstances, there would be no end of trouble, royal and otherwise. Thus, he was thoroughly annoyed when Glorfindel swaggered out of the bathing chamber in naught but a drooping sarong, sauntered over to the entranceway, and brazenly swung the door open to confront the beckoning page. Ecthelion had no option but to embrace cowardice by diving back under the covers and eavesdropping through the downy, luxurious sheets. For if it was not Glorfindel’s bed, the darkling elf would have been thrilled to snuggle down for the duration in the silken splendor that enveloped him. The Lord of the Golden Flower was, after all, chiefly enamored with the finer things in life, though hardly a slave to extravagance. Yet his commitment to comfort and his geniality as a host were two of the traits Ecthelion most admired in his friend, however irritatingly thick he could sometimes be in his magnanimity. 

Indeed, he was nearly drowsing when the timber of the page’s voice ripped through the sheets like a dagger. 

“My Lord, not to impose,” the melodious one intoned, the quality for which his services had first been engaged by the House of the Fountain. “But the King was most insistent that I retrieve Lord Ecthelion from his present whereabouts and escort him to the palace myself. If you would only direct me to the appropriate guest chamber…” 

In the seconds before Glorfindel’s response, Ecthelion bit back a bilious stream of curses and oaths, though he prayed that his friend had the wherewithal to invent a plausible scenario as to why the page could not complete his errand. 

“Pen neth,” the golden elf tempered him, in the paternal tone that had won him the idolatry of every youth in the guard. “I, of course, well understand the consequences of failure to one of lower rank, and even I am not above reproach for allowing both myself and Lord Ecthelion to laze the morn away, our duties wanting. Yet the evening, as I am sure you well understand, was a rowdy one. Thus the circumstances of our return are somewhat…obscure. While I am certain your master is at rest in one of my many, many rooms, I, alas, cannot point you towards the very one. And though the King’s summons is undoubtedly of highest import, I am also certain he would not have my entire House upended, nor have all the various guests we are entertaining alerted to the trouble at large. Therefore, if you will sneak down to the kitchens and fetch me two cups of cocoa, I will, by the time of your return, have recovered our dear Ecthelion.” 

As the utterly enchanted youth sped off, the elf in question marveled anew at his friend’s ineffable charm, a trait that had escaped them from many a mischievous ruse in their own early years and from several far more dangerous entanglements since. With a groan that mingled satisfaction and sulk, he flopped onto his back moments before the covers were thrown off in a brusque gesture. He was then assaulted by the upbraiding eyes of a smug-faced Glorfindel, who snickered appreciatively at his bedraggled state. 

“You could have included something to nibble on,” Ecthelion grumbled, as he glared back at his friend. “One can hardly endure the King on an empty stomach.” 

“I thought it best to espouse caution,” Glorfindel shrewdly responded. “Especially if you are as green as I am.” 

“Would that I was,” Ecthelion sharply answered. “A spate of suffering does much to curdle one’s embarrassment.” 

“Trust me, he did not mark you,” Glorfindel appeased him, plunking down perilously near. 

The Lord of the Fountain momentarily wondered if he had been possessed by some fell spirit, for his skin began to bristle with want of further proximity, a deplorable consequence of the previous night’s sensuality. Aware of how he skirted the precipice of dishonor, Ecthelion scrambled back from the brink, all but leaping off the far side of the bed and searching manically for his uniform. 

“I need to dress,” he mumbled, feeling the sear of his friend’s eyes, no longer as charitable as they were but seconds ago. ‘Small wonder he’s begun to reconsider the bounds of your relationship,’ he chided himself, though his every instinct warned him away from compassion, so easily mistaken for softness of heart. 

He had to survive this without wounding Glorfindel, though he was woefully undermanned as regarded courtesy and etiquette. He far preferred directness, which would be unconscionable in this situation, for how does one say to one’s dearest friend, ‘I have taken liberties with you and deeply regret them,’ without abolishing every anecdote in their history? 

Glorfindel, thankfully, appeared to interpret his reluctance as fealty to their sovereign, or perhaps was simply glad of a reprieve himself, for he soundlessly pointed towards his wardrobe, on which a fresh Fountain uniform hung. 

“With your usual belt and scabbard, he will hardly know the difference,” the Lord of the Golden Flower elaborated. “Though your sash was unscathed, I am not certain we have time to unfasten it from the shards of your tunic.” 

“Shards?” Ecthelion demanded, struck dumb by his explanation. 

His friend had the grace to look sheepish, though he obviously swallowed back a deserved chuckle. 

“There were witnesses,” Glorfindel insisted, with a nonetheless roguish smirk. “A nasty altercation with one of Galdor’s exotic spindly plants, in his conservatory. I was not the cause, though I will not deny that I later took advantage.” 

Exhaustion and anxiety weighing upon him, Ecthelion could not save himself. He erupted. 

“You ‘took advantage’?!” he bellowed. 

He could have strangled Glorfindel for the coy smile that spread across his lips. 

“You were hardly unwilling,” he softly countered. 

“When in my cups!!” he hotly retorted. 

“As was I,” Glorfindel reminded him, visibly unrepentant. 

“So you claim!” Ecthelion coldly accused him, instantly hating himself for the rebuke. “Nay, gwador, I did not mean…” 

“I know,” the golden elf whispered, managing somehow to soothe despite the vitriol launched at him. “We are both raw, as well as required elsewhere. But do not think I will permit you to just sweep this under the rug along with the rest of our scarlet evenings. You will eventually have to confront the fact that you were a willing, if sodden, participant, *gwador*, and that something as yet unacknowledged is brewing between us.” 

Ecthelion was left dumbfounded as Glorfindel stalked into the bathing chamber to finish his ablutions, as magnificent as a lion prowling the veldt. A telltale frisson shivered up his navel, but he forced his attention back to the predicament at hand. 

* * *

“A disgrace to the kingdom and a travesty for such a hallowed court as mine!” Turgon blasted no one in particular, then proceeded to huff testily as he paced in a circle. 

Glorfindel and Ecthelion had been awaiting his notice for some time now, but to no avail. The matter must be one of inconceivable scandal to have launched their normally affable regent into such a fit of bluster, from which he appeared unlikely, if not altogether unwilling, to emerge. The warriors had experience enough of his fits of temper to allow him to flame on unchallenged. Besides, both were still recovering from their own muted altercation but an hour before, each in his own idiosyncratic fashion. Ecthelion, Glorfindel intuitively recognized, was in a stew, barely cognizant of the melodrama around him while he ruminated over the golden elf’s earlier affront. 

The Lord of the Golden Flower, for his part, was attempting to feign sobriety, while within him raged a veritable festival of good cheer at having so provoked his longtime friend and paramour-to-be. Not that he considered his King’s straits, whatever they might actually pertain to, worthy of jeers. Far from it. If there was an imminent threat to the realm, he would valiantly confront it, as he had proved time and again to his sire. Twas only that the seeds he had planted, as regarded his stealth romantic pursuit of his friend, were finally bearing fruit, and he was as raring for them to ripen as he was for the eventual harvest. Still, his celebration was a cautious one. He had seen others wither before Ecthelion’s renowned chilly demeanor when cornered by a swain, an ill turn of weather that could ruin his entire crop. While Glorfindel believed himself to be of hardier stuff than those withy fellows, he was insightful enough to realize his vulnerability where the Lord of the Fountain was concerned, as well as implicitly versed in his friend’s reluctance to embroil himself on a permanent basis. 

Though there were hazards aplenty, he was also confident he would have Ecthelion’s heart before long, for his devotion predated their entitlement, their emigration to the valley of Tumladen, even their crossing to Arda. 

On the far shores of Aman, his love had bloomed for one typically unattainable, the rapscallion son of a minor noble house who prided himself on his independent streak, his sword skill, and his musical talents, which wooed many a tipsy swain to his bed, though he refused to commit to anyone. In his early years, Ecthelion had claimed to have the foresight to predict great events: wars, political overthrows, and so on. Like Glorfindel, he was ambitious enough to seek to lead his peers through these harrowing times. Indeed, his improbable inclusion in a master class on battle strategy had first introduced them, though Ecthelion had been far younger than any of his peers, promoted-by-birthright future captains; only years, rather than centuries, past his majority. From the first, Glorfindel had been mesmerized by him, but had soon realized that no ground would be won until they had both survived a few of these portended calamities and the darkling elf’s voracious need to be of service had been sated. Thus, Glorfindel had smartly befriended him, engaging him in a platonic relationship which had been infinitely nourishing since its foundation, though one which chafed him some upon their settlement in Gondolin, where they had been more or less complacent for the lion’s share of 50 years. 

This bred unrest, especially in one so elemental as he, who thrived on the hunt, the charge, the strike; who aimed to suck the marrow out of life before feasting on its entrails. Ecthelion’s inner and outer beauty had long been revealed to him. They were intimates, acolytes, co-conspirators in the great gambit of their time. They were sworn brothers and bosom mates, but this was still not enough for Glorfindel; would never be enough when his heart so longed for more. In recent decades, Ecthelion’s libido had tempered some. He had grown restless with the sycophants who trolled his House’s celebrations and the guardsmen who sought to prostitute themselves for his military favor. His disenchantment had motivated Glorfindel to finally plot an advance of his own, which required both pristine timing and perfectly designed obstacles. A touch of subterfuge, so to speak. However frank, direct, or candid Ecthelion considered himself, if Glorfindel were to make a forthright advance, his friend would surely recoil, for he was that terrified of potentially losing someone so dear. Family crisis had schooled Ecthelion early in such tactics, for it was his own laborious birth that had so depleted his mother that she had died in the days after. It was no small feat to countermand a millennia’s self-imposed guilt or the haunting memories of a father’s loneliness and grief, but if Glorfindel was as indefatigable as his reputation claimed, he would triumph over his beloved’s tragedy in the end, if only to avert centuries of sorrow and isolation at having so failed the elf who ruled his heart.

Regardless, the chase thus far had been immensely exciting, subtle as his advances had been. While he had deliberately sought to obfuscate the all-too-salient fact that he had not laid a lecherous hand on Ecthelion through the nights they had slept beside one another - he merely maintained the illusion that they had, indeed, shared intimacies – he felt that, in this, his integrity had been sacrificed towards a greater ambition: acclimating the darkling elf to the notion of them as lovers. Ecthelion’s rather classic evasion, his blatant and ludicrous refusal to hash the matter out the morning after, to ask the questions that were no doubt burning his lips, betrayed his sensitivity towards Glorfindel, a hint of vulnerability his friend would not fail to exploit in the hopes of establishing the foundation of a far more substantial relation. Ecthelion, in other words, had to more or less be tricked into recognizing the emotion he was not yet aware of harboring. Glorfindel, however, grew more confident that he did, indeed, harbor some form of softness towards him with every night he lay, chaste and bright-eyed, beside his slumbering friend. 

While it was the most excruciating of torments to forbid oneself the ecstasy of a sultry tangle, the golden elf sought a far more priceless prize for himself. Thus, he bore that particular hair shirt with ease, if not outright pride. That virtuousness, he prayed, would eventually lead Ecthelion to forgive him the slight deception; to confess that he was not as readily dismissible as the others (this in itself proven by his friend’s silence and repression, whereas every overeager swain before him had been curtly shooed off); to finally risk everything by giving his heart. 

How this would play out in the field during their impending mission remained to be seen. Even if Glorfindel had to improvise a few moves, he was confident he could outrun even one of Ecthelion’s stamina, enough to race past his defensive line and straight towards the goal. 

A rough clearing of throat summoned him back to his present audience with his King, who finally nodded solemnly in their direction and waved them into a close circle. 

“Majesty,” Ecthelion dispensed with the formalities. “How may we be of service to you?” 

“There is a serpent amongst us,” the King all but hissed, his normally kind face hard and cold. “Yestereve, one of your own fellows, a leader of elves and a formerly unimpeachable member of our community, thieved an invaluable item from my very person.” 

Both warriors, battle-tested as they were, could not help but gasp at this, for who in all the land could truly possess such gall? 

“But, sire,” Glorfindel objected, more for show than out of doubt of his clear-headed estimation of the circumstances. “Surely the servants had easier access-“ 

“I was a guest at Eol’s table,” Turgon elaborated. “A private meal, served by Aredhel herself. You know what he demands of her, his… old-fashioned notions of a woman’s place.” Both firmed their jaws, for even the King’s wild and willful sister did not deserve such an ogre of a mate. “Alas, he did not move from his place the entire night, nor do I dare suspect Aredhel of such folly. Besides, she knows she need only ask… Idril, I would absolve for similar reasons. Also, it was an intimate affair. Four others shared the table: Salgant, Enerdhil, Duilin, and Penlodh, esteemed lords all. As my most trusted and valiant warriors, I charge the pair of you with ferreting out this serpent and exposing him for the traitor he is. The scent of overthrow is on the wind, but I will not abase myself so easily before such black omens.” 

“But, Majesty,” Ecthelion inquired, some time after they had digested his tale. “What is the item in question? What did the culprit steal?” 

“My scepter,” the King announced, to the further astonishment of his captains. “The jeweled brooch in that regal shape bequeathed me by Manwe himself upon the summit of Taniquetil, to signify my right to rule and my just succession to our people’s highest office. Even an elf of meager might could, if adorned by an unique and priceless gem, persuade a decent faction of my subjects to mutiny, citing the fact that I carelessly mislaid it. A skilled raconteur could convince a motley rabble, under propitious or intoxicated circumstances, to revolt, by claiming that the gods disproved of my lately judgments and thus withdrew their support. Kingdoms have been toppled on the strength of rumor alone, and, as we have only our own counsel to keep, as well as no fellow tribe to come to my defense, I will not stand to be manipulated in this fashion! This villain must be apprehended at once, and the scepter retrieved. The very sanctity of our city depends on it!” 

“They will have to scalp me of my legendary mane before I will see the fall of Gondolin fair,” Glorfindel dramatically declared, bowing piously before his King. 

Ecthelion, ever less extravagant in his fealty, affected a similar gesture of deference, but already his logician’s mind was scouring out the flaws or inconsistencies in their sovereign’s testimony. He was prepared to question him further within seconds. Yet he was also no rube at investigative work, wisely tabling his inquiries until the King was in a more tempered mood, in case he ill-received them. Regardless, within moments of their vow to bring the perpetrator to justice, they were marching down the northern corridor towards the rear veranda, perhaps the most private outdoor area in all the kingdom, save the mountaintops that encircled them. 

Once assured of their isolation, they shared a meaningful look, both overwhelmed by the magnitude of what they had just learned and the potential ramifications of their detective work. The dead drop below only served as a visceral reminder of what would transpire upon the culprit’s unmasking, devastating consequences that they would be directly responsible for. While neither was of such pithy mettle as to shy away from their duty, neither would they forget the absoluteness of the punishment when they finally accused someone of the crime.

“Though I cannot fathom anyone chancing so much,” Glorfindel commented, breaking the introspective quietude that had descended upon them. “We must be certain. Our proofs must be irrefutable. I swore once that I would raise no sword against my brethren, and I will not gainsay such an oath now.” 

“If only banishment were an option,” Ecthelion mused, his frustration plain. “We came to this valley to be steadfast against the Dark Lord, to conserve our lives whilst we plotted unilateral conquest. To what purpose such ploys for power before the heathen charge?” 

“Worse still,” Glorfindel sighed. “It is beyond my comprehension that any one of those named seeks to defame the King, their longtime sword-brother and genial friend. It would be as if…” 

He could not speak the words, but Ecthelion understood him readily enough, and clapped an empathetic hand on his shoulder. 

“*That* is a patent impossibility,” he zealously insisted, while Glorfindel dared a squeeze of solidarity over his friend’s own, imparting far more with a true and tender look. 

Ignoring his discomfort, Ecthelion straightened his stance, intimating that they must recover themselves and attack the present trouble with full force. Concurring, the golden elf released him. 

“To my mind, our first order of business is to examine the banquet hall,” Glorfindel proposed. “Plot out of the seating arrangement, learn of who shifted where at what time. Aredhel will have to be questioned, and she will probably be the most knowledgeable as concerns everyone’s movements, since she served the courses. Idril, as well, will have keen insights as to mood and demeanor. I have oft been privy to her secret observations, and she is quite a formidable witness.” 

“Indeed,” Ecthelion concurred. “Yet tis of supreme import that a timeline be established whilst such incidental observations are still fresh in the minds of the participants. While Aredhel is a key element, one of us must visit Galdor’s house master before the day’s end, as well as forward discreet inquiries through back channels as concerns the whereabouts of all participants after they left the table. Salgant, we know, joined our own festivities, but at what time compared to when he departed Eol’s residence? Did the others leave early, and whom, if any, did they visit before retiring? This information might prove useless in the end, but we must gather it posthaste all the same.” 

“Then you are thinking along the same line as I,” Glorfindel pinpointed, reading beyond his friend’s statements. “That Salgant was quite flush when he arrived last night, and that he spent far more than usual.” 

The Lord of the Fountain appeared mildly sheepish at this declaration, which confirmed his suspicions. 

“Tis far too early to identify a likely candidate,” Ecthelion evenly opined. “And we must not allow our distaste for him to color our conclusions. Besides, I daresay even he is too thick to so gauchely threaten the King’s supremacy. Regardless, we must leave no stone unturned. Even the strongest case against the others will be incredible to any who know and respect them, thus we must believe everyone a villain even as we strive to absolve them all.” 

“Well reasoned,” Glorfindel accepted, though he could not resist the chance to needle his friend some. “I suppose you mean to scuttle through the back channels whilst I must negotiate the hurricane moods of the Lady Aredhel.” 

Ecthelion’s aversion to their sovereign’s sister, who stubbornly sought to woo him for centuries prior to their crossing, was all but a matter of public record. 

“Twould be a most gallant gesture,” the Lord of the Fountain beseechingly smiled, his noble face imbued with an air of earnest warmth that had enslaved the golden elf from the first. “To say naught of efficient, sparing me an afternoon of steering through the choppy waters of her companionship.” 

“Very well, then,” Glorfindel acquiesced, though in truth he wanted to evaluate her level of sincerity, since a cat in a bag was one of the most unwittingly vicious creatures of all, one that would do anything to ensure its freedom. “Shall we meet in your study at seven bells to compare our findings?” 

He strategically suggested a neutral ground, one of security and control, lest his prey grew skittish. For no matter whose life was at stake, Glorfindel would not fail to wholly embrace this opportunity to work in such close quarters with his beloved. 

“Agreed,” Ecthelion acknowledged, then awkwardly nodded his head, betraying his discomfiture at last. 

As he strode off, Glorfindel indulged in a quiet smile, though his heart thundered in his chest. If the darkling elf only knew what power he wielded over him, he might not be so conservative in his regard.

* 

Aredhel was how he expected her: frazzled, scattered, and eager to accommodate. Her perspective in this was far too easily discerned, since her brother was her only ally in what was a borderline abusive relationship with the imperious, secretive husband who had tamed her. The repercussions of disobeying Eol she had been enduring for years, but that Turgon had been so dishonored at her table threatened her very survival, her only chance to escape her troubled marriage unscathed, when the time came to do so. As the lady confided everything in the princess who also kept his ear, Glorfindel was privy to all the scandalous details of her breaks and mends with Eol, none of which mattered a whit to him beyond the bounds of his investigation (though he could not imagine putting up with such theatrics daily and did harbor a minute measure of sympathy for her dubious mate). If his insights into her character could serve to provoke or entrap Aredhel, then he would deploy them with due severity. 

Otherwise, he expected her to be honest and explicit, in her own inimitably eccentric fashion. 

At present, she appeared more than willing to comply, having prepared a recreation of the evening’s initial seating arrangements in advance of his visit, since Turgon had alerted her to this essential intrusion into her home. The room itself was dank and somber, with vulpine stone arches supported by dense slabs of pillar, a cape of black curtains hanging limply between. The birdcage lanterns were like miniature prisons stifling the dim flame within. The furniture was rudimentary at best, pathetically plain at worst, a hulking mass of darkly varnished oak without any discernible carvings. Her dour son Maeglin, the child forced upon her in the wake of her binding night, was playing silently in the corner with a pile of monochromatic rocks, only further imbuing the macabre atmosphere with a greater sense of gloom. 

“He aspires to be a miner,” Aredhel excused his presence, in her flighty way. “The mountains are rich with ore, you know, enough to treble the royal coffers’ current trove of gold. He gathers his specimens on our strolls. They are his obsession. Commendable, is it not, to dedicate oneself to a trade at such a tender age?” 

“Indeed,” Glorfindel conceded, with a strained grin, as the elfling had not yet seen twenty-five summers. “So you are certain your brother shifted seats between the second and third course?” 

“Aye, to be closer to his nephew, who was being taunted by that regrettable Salgant,” Aredhel confirmed, much to the golden elf’s bemusement. “By the fourth, he was conversing with Penlodh and Enerdhil – you know how they drone on about their years as novitiates.” 

“Aye, their wild and errant youths,” Glorfindel quipped sympathetically, as he had indeed been in attendance during just such flights of nostalgia, which struck them far too often. 

Though this was yet another reminder of the depth of the friendships at stake, he concentrated on envisioning the movements of the players, such as in a realistic version of the Battle Game. Yet a snicker sneaked out when the Lady rolled her eyes, indicating the liberties taken in these boastful accounts. 

“The cheese course came seventh, and Turgon retreated back to Idril,” she continued. “While Salgant excused himself, I believe, to join you and your companions at Galdor’s.” 

“Around nine bells?” Glorfindel verified, imagining the ritual farewells as they might have played out before him. “Is that when the King moved to Idril, or prior?” 

“Methinks it was my brother who rose to take Salgant’s vacant spot once he was gone,” Aredhel explained, growing somewhat pensive herself. “In truth, I have revisited those last moments so many times, I begin to wonder if I have improved on them. I try to recall if a glimmer from the brooch caught my eye at any time, if when I leaned over him I remarked it. Alas, my brother is so fond of the bauble, I cannot recall an occasion when he was not wearing it.” 

“Which could in itself have alerted you to its absence,” Glorfindel reassured her, for by her stricken visage, she was all too aware of her failings in this. “At what hour did the others depart?” 

“Eol lured Enerdhil to the ale hall at ten bells,” she remarked. “Penlodh excused himself soon after. Turgon and Idril stayed on for some time after that, to chat with me as I cleaned the dishes. It was when my brother moved that the scepter’s absence was noted, and the alarm raised among us.” 

“Therefore the crime occurred sometime between six and ten bells,” Glorfindel reviewed. “In this room, which no one entered or exited before nine bells, and then just Salgant.” 

Aredhel went oddly pale for one usually so spirited and stubborn. 

“Excepting myself,” she all but whispered, her eyes pleading with the lord for some reasonable alibi. 

“Aye,” Glorfindel assuaged her. “But I trust you have already considered whether the brooch might have been carried off in a bowl or on a plate.” 

“I scoured the kitchens,” she assured him. “This hall, the corridor, even the waste bin. Not a trace.”

The Lord of the Golden Flower fell silent a moment, absorbing every detail he could of the room. 

“No doubt,” he finally responded. “For I need not remind you of the consequences of this vile act, if indeed it was a purposeful sabotage and not a peculiar accident.” 

“You need not, my Lord,” Aredhel murmured, by her ashen face all too concerned about the very same potential indictment that loomed large in Glorfindel’s mind. “An accident it may have been, but I am certain I was not the cause.” 

“As am I, my Lady,” he concluded, then requested a quiet corner in which to scrawl out a few relevant notes and sketches. 

It was just as he was finishing his seat-switching chart that he spied a rather unusual item on the mantelpiece. He tucked this insight away for later revelation, then set off to meet with Ecthelion, much relieved by what he had learned that afternoon. 

* * * 

A storm cloud hung about the Lord of the Fountain as he navigated his way through the stark nighttime streets, his mood as gray and broody as the overcast sky above. While the value of the evidence he had collected that day would only be weighed when they had finished interviewing all the relevant witnesses, Ecthelion was grim with dissatisfaction over his preliminary findings, as well as sobered by his rather pathetic level of distraction as he had gone about his duty. Normally the purview of one of his lesser officers, he had struggled to maintain focus throughout the afternoon’s tedium, his thoughts drifting off as he listened to a servant’s graciously given testimony, his mind unable to wake from a fugue of introspection in the moments between interviews. To his further irritation, the subject that dominated his inner musings was not the consequences of a false accusation or the challenges of pinpointing the perpetrator with any accuracy when his crime had gone unnoticed by those around him, but a trifle of a matter when compared to the potential execution of an elven lord. 

That was, Glorfindel. Jovial, wily, strident, and genial Glorfindel, the most sterling soul in his vast acquaintance; an elf of legendary heart and indefatigable spirit, dogged in loyalty, compassionate to a fault, as well as egregiously, epically kind. Ecthelion, alas, had unwittingly taken to treating him as a bed-treat, a somewhat more respectful role than that of a concubine, but far less so than a friend of his worth merited. Yet the golden’s elf’s early hours charges had echoed through his head incessantly since the second they were uttered. What had led him to succumb to his friend’s charms, not once but on four separate occasions? Intoxication was indeed no proper excuse. Rather, what did an excess of wine facilitate that was otherwise not permissible? Was Glorfindel correct in his assertion that something was ‘brewing’ between them? Had he so repressed an initial attraction that it was now unfathomable to him that he had ever felt thusly? Most essential of all, what was the nature of his desire for the Lord of the Golden Flower? Was it merely carnal, or was there genuine care involved, an emotion that might eventually blur the bounds of their friendship? Was he prepared for such an eventuality, and did he perhaps secretly aspire to it? 

Overall, Ecthelion had been generally befuddled over how he could be so oblivious to the yearning of his own soul, as well as terrified about what the consequences of further, clear-headed experimentation might be. Such a feeling was anathema to one of such fearsome military courage and he was all the more cowed by it, though he was far from truly daunted. Alas, the devising of a suitably practical and unthreatening resolution had high-jacked his concentration for the lion’s share of the afternoon, the results so muddled that he had been fouled by the very effort, to say naught of aggravated by the waste of time. 

Thus, when Glorfindel’s page had barely avoided smashing into him as he made his way back to his study, it had required every ounce of his diplomacy not to snap at the exuberant youth, so typical of the upstart types the Lord of the Golden Flower preferred to employ. Upon receiving his message, he had poorly restrained his temper, which had come on like a thunderclap. Wary of unduly berating his friend in a more vociferous fit than that which had enraged him that morn, he had briefly considered improvising an excuse and retreating to his chambers for the night. He could not conscionably insult his King by permitting personal troubles to overwhelm him. Instead, he barked out his assent, then shooed away his escort before he gave in to his annoyance, though he would certainly not deprive Glorfindel of an earful once he arrived. 

He spied his friend at their usual table, then all but blazed through the crowd, cursing himself for attracting such notice before aiming dagger eyes at his golden companion, whose own sapphire irises twinkled with typical mirth. There truly was no quieting Glorfindel’s innate impishness, especially not with the bile that currently rose into his throat. Ecthelion might have regarded him less dyspeptically if he were not so strangely compelled by his relentlessly affable demeanor. 

“Well met, gwador,” Glorfindel welcomed him, clapping a fond hand on his shoulder. “By all appearances, the weather has infected you with an uncharacteristically ill mood. Fortunately, I have taken the liberty of ordering up some savory vittles to warm away the damp-“ 

“Have you gone mad?” Ecthelion demanded, in a raspy whisper. “We mean to identify a potential traitor to the realm and you would have us compare notes in such a public forum?!” 

“Rather, I aim to provide you with a decent meal,” Glorfindel bemusedly replied, not a whit bothered by his anger. “As I wager you have not eaten since our paltry excuse of a fast-breaking. Such is your wont when you are preoccupied, however foolishly so. Even we titans require fuel enough to sustain us. Once our hunger is sated, and hopefully your humor improved, then we can squire off to your study, to undertake this wretched business once more.” 

Blindsided by his goodly intentions and concern, Ecthelion could not deny that his stomach rumbled in uproarious agreement, though he simultaneously suffered a bout of queasiness that almost prompted him to protest. 

“Do my cooks’ efforts so offend your palate?” the darkling elf nonetheless inquired of him, as snidely as he could muster. “They gladly could have prepared something suitable, to be consumed in due privacy.” 

“I thought it best that we be seen,” Glorfindel admitted, his visage growing stern out of distaste for the criminal element lurking among them. “While our absence would not draw particular suspicion, if we are accounted for, then there is no cause whatsoever for doubt. Also, it might do to monitor the behavior of those we may come to accuse. Though this is by nature a precarious prospect, since anything can be distorted into dubious action, our case hinges on circumstantial evidence for the time being; thus we must gather as much as we may. However, if you remain affronted, then I will gladly follow you home, as I confess a part of me desired to delay my duty awhile, to bask in our city’s bounty and to ignore the encroaching rot.” 

With a blustery sigh, Ecthelion released all the pent-up frustration that had lead him to once again unleash himself on his undeserving friend, then met Glorfindel’s bright eyes with a penitent gaze. 

“Forgive me,” the Lord of the Fountain begged, though he knew by his patient, giving smile that his testiness was already forgotten. “This black business has me riled.” 

“To say naught of how you began the day depleted,” Glorfindel clucked sympathetically, greeting their serving wench with a beguiling smile, his momentary gravity obliterated in an instant. “Come, now, to the feast that you may replenish yourself! I have selected hardy fare: lamb’s stew with ale-thickened broth and vegetables, sour cream potato mash, a slaw with cider vinegar, and a massive piece of berry peach crumble. Is there aught else that strikes your fancy, gwador?” 

Ecthelion was quite astonished to realize that there was not. The meal ordered for them was precisely what he craved, as if his friend knew better than he what silenced his roaring appetite. With a humbled shake of his head, he refused anything further, then dug into his plate before Glorfindel’s acuity could rattle him more. Yet every delectable morsel underlined how doting the golden elf could be. What other delights awaited him if he were brave enough to gamble with their friendship? He understood, then, that he was being subtly courted, though he had not the faintest notion as to how he should respond to such an odd and uncomfortable development, nor if there was any means of extricating himself from it without tainting all the perfectly chaste care that had ever existed between them. 

Thankfully, Glorfindel devoured his own food in strict silence, his gaze occasionally straying from the table, towards one of their quartet of subjects. Ecthelion was equally aware of how it fleetingly fell upon him when he happened to glance down, the weight of this particular burden too much for him to bear just then, when a stealth chaos waited for the opportune moment to erupt, potentially razing to ruin their city fair. 

End of Part One


	2. Chapter 2

The Untold Annals of the First Age present…

The Scepter and the Serpent  
A Gondolin Mystery

Part Two: Rattle

Never had Ecthelion been more conscious of the intimate size of his study than on that stormy night, with rivulets of rain streaming down his window panes like prison bars, the pool of the lantern’s glow isolating them from the towering bookcases that lined the walls, and the fathoms of darkness beyond as opaque as the boundless depths of the ocean. Glorfindel prowled around his desk with the feral vigor of a caged lion, growling with annoyance at the same impasses and dead ends that the Lord of the Fountain had encountered earlier that day, during his investigation. Yet there was nonetheless a captivating quality to his friend, an imperial righteousness that was more than the magnificence of his gossamer crown, more than the preternatural radiance that ever illuminated his noble visage. 

Whether he was bludgeoning some heathen or blithely recounting some ruse, Glorfindel was ever alight, the incandescent heat of his spirit blazing out to brighten the world around him. He was unquestionably a force of good, a creature of unimpeachable honor, and almost impossibly beautiful for it. 

Ecthelion shuddered in the wake of such a realization, still discomfited by the fact that he could now view his friend from such a biased, if not outright preferential, perspective; that Glorfindel had suddenly been revealed to him in such a provocative fashion. He dared not contemplate that he was not as ignorant of his impressiveness as he might have claimed to others, that he had partaken of his friend’s physical bounty, though he tragically remembered not a caress, nor a clutch; anything that might disabuse him of the romanticized portrait of the golden elf that was the lone canvass presently hanging in the gallery of his mind. Wrenching his focus back to the matter at hand, and a critical one at that, he locked his stare on the inkwell some distance before him so that he might actually listen to Glorfindel’s description of the guests’ movements on the night in question. 

“There is no mistaking that Salgant’s was the clearest opportunity,” he explained, though his reservations were conveyed in the furrow to his brow. “He sat beside the King without engaging him in direct conversation, so he easily could have reached across him and snatched the scepter with a casual action. Likewise, Aredhel was positive he rose first from the table when preparing to depart, another sterling opportunity. However…” 

“She dislikes him, as do we all, and with due cause, given his past behavior towards her,” Ecthelion countered. “She is perhaps unwittingly distorting the facts.” 

“It is a danger we must carefully consider,” Glorfindel concurred. “What more… Do you truly think Salgant capable of such a scheme? Though pompous and somewhat elitist, he is a simple elf. A glutton who has never demonstrated anything like this brand of ambition.” 

“He certainly adores the King,” Ecthelion elaborated. “He’s ever been a nauseatingly strict enforcer of the rules, to the point of meddling with some of our own antics during the war games between houses. As well, it is important to note that he is one of the richest nobles in the realm. The brooch is undoubtedly an emblem more than a prize, but still, if he wished to mutiny, it would be smarter to sponsor a wave of propaganda, not to thieve from one’s opponent.” 

“A truth that can be applied towards exonerating every suspect,” Glorfindel pointed out. “With only Salgant dull-witted enough to do otherwise. Perhaps he is not so blameless after all, just…idiotic.” 

“The crime itself is rather laughable,” Ecthelion commented. “I cannot believe the shrewd military minds of Duilin and Penlodh devised this inherently flawed escapade. If I were preparing to stage a coup and desired some means of discrediting the King, I would make certain that there was no trace of my own participation, not risk being accused by limiting the other suspects to three elves of galling repute.” 

“Either the perpetrator does not care if he is identified,” Glorfindel hypothesized. “Or he hopes that the King will charge and try him. Perhaps he seeks to mastermind a public reckoning. Perhaps he is further along in his plans than we assume.” 

“But surely we would know of it!” Ecthelion protested, in defense of them both, as well as their compatriots. “We are hardly novices in the area of espionage.”

“Especially you rogues at the House of the Fountain,” Glorfindel playfully taunted, more to replenish the atmosphere than to needle his friend. “Forever scuttling about the sewers, ‘maintaining the pipes’, as you so mysteriously term it.” 

Ecthelion managed to chuckle at this despite his encroaching sense of dread. The golden elf was renowned for making merry in times of abject crisis, a comfort to those allied with him and a brief respite for all from the harrowing trial of warfare. He was at times so charming that his opponents oft could not resist laughing and thereby exposed themselves to the gutting spear of his blade, a genius tactic that many had sought to emulate, at their own peril. 

“Tis a sobering thought,” the Lord of the Fountain remarked, guiding them back to their debate. “That we who are charged with keeping the location of our city refuge a secret are so accomplished at doing so that it is no trouble at all to effectively plot against the King. But there is a further rub, gwador. If one wishes to overthrow Turgon, why not ride out to an adjacent realm and reveal us to the local tyrant? Surely such a ruse warrants a title and rule over the principality in question.” 

“Aye, but it also courts conquest of a viler sort,” Glorfindel responded. “Better to surrender us to the heathens and be rewarded by the Dark One himself.” After such a bleak thought, he rallied with his usual strength, forwarding a plan of action for the morrow. “I have an audience with Idril in the morn, which will hopefully yield something of use. There is still much left to learn and to reflect on. How do you mean to occupy yourself?” 

“Methinks I will delve into the city’s underbelly,” Ecthelion proposed, with a chuckle at his own overdramatic tone. “It has occurred to me that there is the slight chance that the thief was unaware of the brooch’s significance. Perhaps he meant only to fatten his purse. I will make discreet inquiries as regards the suspects’ finances, and entertain a few blackguards of my acquaintance.” 

The darkling elf had expected some further jest about the dubious nature of the House of the Fountain’s dealings, but instead was stunned by his friend’s air of displeasure. 

“You might care to enlist a few trusted comrades,” Glorfindel warned him, somewhat ridiculously in Ecthelion’s view. “Such villains should not be trifled with.” 

“I am hardly an amateur,” the Lord of the Fountain sniffed, overtly displaying his irritation at his friend’s caution. 

“Neither are they,” Glorfindel underlined, but in a dismissive fashion, somewhat embarrassed at having been so overprotective. He subsequently veered towards the exit, glancing only briefly at Ecthelion before tucking his notes into his pack. “Shall we reconvene here on the morrow, then? Does seven bells suit you?” 

“You mean to depart?” Ecthelion asked him, shocked by the alarm that sounded within, at how insistent his spirit was that the golden elf should remain. 

Though Glorfindel was clearly startled by the urgency of his tone, he appeared the more guarded for it, a reaction that could only have one meaning: a vulnerability lurked within his friend. The situation that confronted them truly grew more bizarre by the minute. 

“I considered a decent night’s rest a worthy pursuit,” Glorfindel replied. “After such an incredible day.” Thinking again on it, he added: “Would you that I remain?” 

“Not if you are fatigued,” Ecthelion hesitantly answered, his own traitorous tongue itching to gainsay him. “Tis only that we have conversed of naught but our grim duty the day long. I thought perhaps we might simply… enjoy one another’s company.” Glorfindel’s face hardened imperceptibly at this, which was so discouraging to the darkling elf that he was compelled to elaborate further. “There was a time when were at ease with one another, when we thrived on our great friendship. Has that truly changed?”

The Lord of the Golden Flower shut his eyes, exhaled longly. 

“Nay, it has not,” Glorfindel humbly responded. “Yet if you would have my honest answer, I am simply not in a temper to endure your continued indifference towards what has transpired between us and methinks it would be best if I sought a measure of solitude this eve. You have my oath that I will endeavor to forget the matter entirely and concentrate myself on our vital friendship. Tis only that the day’s events have left me raw-“ 

“Glorfindel, forgive me,” Ecthelion instantly pleaded, sick at having been so inconsiderate towards his fellow. “I had no notion that I had so wounded you.” 

“As I have said, it will pass,” Glorfindel insisted, though he visibly struggled to reinvigorate his mood. 

When the golden elf again made to depart, a lump lodged itself in the pit of Ecthelion’s stomach, a visceral amalgamation of anxiety, annoyance, and aching compassion for his longtime friend. He had been so preoccupied with blighting out any memory of the aftermath of their coupling, of wallowing in guilt over having so dishonored himself, that he had not considered Glorfindel’s sensibilities, which, while hardly on par with those of a dizzy maid, were not as stoic as the lord often let on. This was yet another occasion in which his friend had demonstrated his innate selflessness, to Ecthelion’s shame, since he could neither be so forthright nor so understanding. Yet he could not in good conscience abandon him when he was so bereft; not if he truly meant to nurture the friendship he claimed to hold dear.

“Ask of me what you would,” he declared, by means of summoning him back. “I have too long evaded resolution out of… confusion, I suppose. But no longer. My behavior towards you in this regard has been abysmal, and you are justified in seeking some form of… for want of a better term, resolution. Let us speak frankly of it, as we should have from the start.” 

Wary eyes were foisted upon him, but the golden elf’s face was kindly lit, glowing with its usual blend of sympathy and respect. Still, he made no move to approach the desk. Ecthelion stepped out from behind it, courting a soothing proximity, which Glorfindel eventually cottoned to and fell in beside him, both leaning on the rounded front edge. There was little more than a ghost between them, the air suddenly possessed as if by a genuine presence, perhaps the specter of the Lord of the Golden Flower’s attraction bidding a final farewell. 

“Very well,” Glorfindel assented, carefully considering his next statement, then choosing the bluntness for which he was known. “Tell me true, Ecthelion. Did you derive no pleasure at all from the act? It is a sticking point within me. That first morn, when we awoke, I confess I was unprepared for your revulsion. You were so willing when in your cups, but then… Not that I could claim to have been any more clear-headed. Still, I… I was intrigued by what had transpired. Moved, even.” 

Suddenly, the darkling elf regretted most hotly ever venturing down this path, as it could lead only to disillusionment and hurt. Regardless, he was committed. Glorfindel would have his insights, no matter how deep they struck. 

“Perhaps I would feel as you do if…” Ecthelion stammered, then fought to recover himself. “If I remembered any of our intimacy. Alas, I do not, though I believe myself the better for it. I cherish you too much to ravage what has ever been my most affecting relation. To love you romantically would almost be an insult to our affinity, to the filial love that burns in my chest whenever we are engaged in some common duty or leisure activity.” 

“Only if you treat me as you have the other suitors that have so vainly hunted your elusive heart,” Glorfindel implored him, his regal face luminous with hope. “There is far more to loving than sacrifice and servitude, Ecthelion. If you would only open yourself to our potential…“

“*Potential*?!” the Lord of the Fountain exclaimed, blindsided by this development. “You mean to court me?”

“I would not stress the formality of the process,” Glorfindel explained, unable to suppress the smile that erupted across his lips. The darkling elf instantly recognized the freeing aspects of such an admission, and wondered how long his friend had felt thusly. “We have stumbled into what, in my right mind, I would have delayed considerably, but I pray that does not mean… I only ask for a chance.” 

His look was so wretchedly earnest that Ecthelion could do naught but gape. He was so overwhelmed by the circumstances, by this monumental shift in worldview, that he could not quite adapt as quickly as he aimed to. He attempted to speak, but the result was utter doggerel, such that Glorfindel was soon chuckling fondly at him. This in itself was so frighteningly enticing that he was further paralyzed by the realization of his own prickly curiosity. 

Then, the impossible happened – or perhaps merely the improbable, given the golden elf’s penchant for bold gestures. Glorfindel leaned slowly in, then pressed a kiss of sublime chastity to his lips. The briefest press, but one which conveyed a magnitude of emotion, leaving Ecthelion breathless even though he had not stolen so much as a gasp. Yet the aftershocks that jostled through him were viciously lovely, hinting at the primal rush that would result from a full-on, decadent embrace. Any protest he could have forwarded was instantly aborted, for his mind could conceive of naught more than acquiescing to his friend’s every desire, of giving himself to him wholeheartedly, to the benefit of all. Still, enough reservation slithered under the surface of this new resolve that he remained strictly silent, waiting to see what would come of this propitious overture in the days ahead. 

“Think on me,” Glorfindel whispered, then quietly rose, that the enchantment they both felt might linger on long into the night. 

* * *

“You rogue!” Idril exclaimed, then giggled conspiratorially, thrilled that her cousin’s infatuation might be seconded at last. “Only you, Glorfindel, could dance so gingerly on the precipice of disaster.” 

“Twas no idle feat, I assure you, “ the golden warrior himself boasted, still intoxicated by the memory of Ecthelion’s kiss. Though his darkling friend had not been aware of the novelty of the experience for both of them, Glorfindel still regarded the gamble as a win, since there had been no mistaking the Lord of the Fountain’s reaction, nor his eagerness to reciprocate. “He could easily have slapped me, or brusquely shoved me aside, or worse!” 

“But he did not,” Idril needlessly reminded him, if only to further rejoice in his contentment. 

“Nay, he did not,” Glorfindel parroted, beaming all the while. “The virtues of patience have been proved, cousin fair.” 

“You mean the worthiness of wiles,” she taunted him, with a fond smile of her own. “Though you have not quite conquered yet, my dear. There is the small matter of confessing to him that you have not actually beheld him bare, let alone ravished him limpid.” 

“A trifle,” Glorfindel dismissed, however blatantly she disapproved. “There is no reason for him to suspect; thus he need never know.” 

“You would found your relation on a lie?” she inquired, sobering some of her mirth. 

Scenting trouble on the wind, the Lord of the Golden Flower sighed, then hastened to avoid the brewing onslaught of reproof. 

“You approved of my deception well enough whilst I was concocting it,” he challenged. 

“Because it was one so easy to forgive in the name of earnest and involving passion,” Idril insisted. “To not reveal yourself betrays what I perceived to be your original intent, to provoke Ecthelion into altering his view of romance and permanent attachments. A trace amount of dissimulation aptly served as the catalyst to change, but had I thought you meant to swindle him, I would never have encouraged you.” 

Glorfindel grumbled good-naturedly at this, properly berated by the one who ever regulated his wilder impulses. 

“Verily, that was never my intent,” he protested. “Tis only that I have been fretting over how to confess myself, and chance alienating him once we have finally grown so close.” 

“Do you now doubt the righteousness of your actions?” she smartly asked. 

“I cannot say,” Glorfindel admitted, feeling increasingly maudlin at the prospect of losing what he had so recently gained. “At the time, I thought it beneficial to Ecthelion that he be jostled out of his complacence, but now that it comes to conceding my invention of the ruse… I suppose that here is where I must trust in our friendship, that he knows me well enough to recognize that I meant him no harm. If I had simply declared myself, it *would* have ruined us. Else I would have been played with and discarded like all the rest.” 

“You may still be,” Idril warned him, moved by this further evidence of his vulnerability. “However intrigued he currently is, he may still bolt if he feels threatened.” 

“That is why I have trodden slowly,” Glorfindel affirmed, though altogether done with second-guessing and self-analysis. “Otherwise, I would have seized him in a blistering embrace and proceeded to pound him into his desk.” 

Idril erupted into bellows of laughter as the golden warrior grinned proudly, though his trepidation over Ecthelion’s potential response to the previous night’s intimacy did little to settle his stomach. However celebratory his mood that morn, he knew his triumph was relegated to a battle, not the war. Besides, there was still his duty to attend to, as well as a serpent to shoo out of the weeds.

Just as he was about to steer the conversation towards such aims, a dull knock sounded on the chamber door. Then, to their mutual astonishment and Glorfindel’s delight, Ecthelion himself slid in once bidden, bowing courteously to the Princess but studiously evading his friend’s eyes, lest she catch a glimpse of the emotion he did not quite comprehend, let alone meant to disclose. 

“Please forgive my advent, if it is untimely,” the darkling elf politely excused himself, then cautiously direct his ensuing comments towards Glorfindel. “I thought it best that we go about our inquiries together. Though conspicuous, it will serve us well in the long run, as we can devote more time to conjecture.” 

“You do make such a handsome couple,” Idril could not keep herself from insinuating, which earned her a death glare from Glorfindel and a florid blush from Ecthelion. 

As the Lord of the Golden Flower was fumbling for some decent way in which to scold her for her impertinence, he heard his beloved chuckle bashfully, then seat himself at his side on the cushy banquette. 

“It appears I am regrettably transparent,” Ecthelion mused, then shot him a sympathetic glance. “Fear not, I know you are confidantes. Indeed, I do hope she counseled you well, for you have been so nimble thus far you are bound to blunder soon.” 

The three of them exploded into laughter at this blunt estimation of Glorfindel’s wooing prowess, then settled into the matter at hand. The golden elf’s guilt, however, reared with alacrity, thus confronted by his beloved’s capacity for grace and compassion. Yet his valiant spirit urged him ever on, indefatigable in pursuit of the one he had so long adored. 

“And so, to your questions, my brave ones,” Idril deferred, obviously concerned by the potential ramifications of the theft upon her father. “I can first and foremost affirm that Ada was wearing the brooch during the first course, as its sparkle reflected off his plate as it was being raised and thereby caught my eye. I can also inform you that twas I who noted its absence after our meal, while we were conversing with Aredhel. What more I can share with you, I cannot fathom, but feel free to mine my memories as you would.” 

“How did the demeanor of the other lords strike you, cousin?” Glorfindel pointedly inquired. “You know them of old. Did anyone appear anxious or troubled?” 

“Certainly, they spoke of some problems in their respective houses,” Idril replied. “But they are lords at table with their king. Salgant was his usual self, whiny and ostentatious, but that is the norm, just as Duilin was griping about his mate’s expenditures and Penlodh about the suitors that plague his pretty daughters. I have dined with each hundreds of times, such that I could recite their grievances by rote! Yet the most curious aspect of all of this to me is that these are Ada’s oldest friends! Their behavior is never remotely suspect, though perhaps that is to the villain’s advantage. If I had not had my eye on Eol for most of the night, as truly he is a detestable individual, I would have sworn away my firstborn before I spoke against anyone else among our party.” 

“Which introduces a subject that you may find controversial,” Ecthelion gently forwarded. “Tis, however, impossible to conduct a fair investigation without voicing it. Do you believe your aunt to be wholly innocent in this, given how put upon she is in her bond?” 

Idril considered this for some time, not a whit offended by the query. Rather, a drama of emotion played across the exquisite canvass of her features, each act dominated by an unmistakable theme: sorrow, frustration, sympathy, regret. 

“I can only say that the fear that possessed her upon learning of the scepter’s mislaying was acutely real,” the Princess quietly responded. “Whether it was fear of discovery, fear of disgrace, or fear of reprisal from either her husband or my father, I cannot judge. What I can assert is that I could not in my wildest dreams imagine that she could do such a thing to Maeglin. Though she is not the most adept of mothers, she is fiercely protective of the child, and would do anything to ensure his safety. Aredhel is smart and she is shrewd; moreover, she can effortlessly manipulate my father. She would not chance it, not with Maeglin to defend.” 

“Agreed,” Glorfindel acknowledged, before venturing an even more scandalous proposition. “Yet fear is a powerful motivator, especially coupled with a touch of necromancy. So many have remarked that Aredhel is almost impossibly docile since her return. When I visited her yesterday, she displayed nary a trace of her usual feistiness, not a hint of restlessness, though she is all but subjugated by her spouse. This is perhaps a fanciful theory, but do you think it possible that she is under some dark influence? That she is innocent of the crime in that she was compelled by supernatural forces, by the black will of one who claims her very soul?” 

The three of them shivered nervously at this, since Eol reluctantly remained in the kingdom and was the likeliest suspect in a plot of overthrow. 

“That is a bold accusation,” Ecthelion warned him. “Though not an unreasonable one.” 

“Alas, it is beyond the scope of my knowledge,” Idril dismally insisted, herself terrified that this incident had awakened some evil lurking among the nobility. A serpent in the grass, indeed. “I can only caution you both to tread carefully. If my law-brother is so heartless, there is no telling what further treason he may commit, to the ruin of all.” 

Duly chastened, Glorfindel thanked Idril for her time, then rejoined with Ecthelion in the corridor. Both strode somberly forth, no thought of flirtation captivating their minds when confronted by such bleak possibilities. At first, they had believed the major threat was to the villain himself, not to the populace at large, no matter Turgon’s talk of mutiny. Yet if the Dark Lord had already infiltrated their refuge, there was no predicting the damage that might ensue; rumor of it alone could disrupt the peace and lead to an epidemic of executions. Mindful of Idril’s advice about his courtship of Ecthelion, but relating it to their mysterious assignment, he turned abruptly towards his friend once they alighted on the palace steps. 

“Gwador, I…” he briskly began, then paused to consider how best to phrase his following statements. “As exhilarating as it would be to accompany you this afternoon, our lately conversation has rattled me such that I feel I must chase this theory to its logical end. I would surprise Aredhel with a visit, and report back to you this eve with my findings.” 

Though Ecthelion’s ardor deflated somewhat at this proposal, the warrior in him was lucid enough to recognize the golden elf’s righteousness in this, thus he nodded his assent. 

“Due justice urges me to counsel caution,” the Lord of the Fountain wryly answered. “Remember that you are meant to gather insights and clues, not attack, even if you find incriminating evidence. You are a captain, Glorfindel, not a mystic. No matter your brawn, you cannot defeat a black elf.” 

“Do not fret,” he precociously dismissed. “I would not add fuel to the fire by igniting the family war that is sure to come. Though your care does impress me, Ecthelion, whether judiciously or emotionally motivated.” 

“That is a taunt best reserved for twilight’s descent,” the darkling elf enigmatically insinuated, then laid a hand over his companion’s heart. “When under cover of night, we can forget ourselves awhile, that we might learn… far more. Be well, gwador. I’ll await you at *my* table.” 

With that, Ecthelion spirited away, leaving Glorfindel amazed at his own turn of good fortune, however ominous the gathering storm. 

End of Part Two


	3. Chapter 3

The Untold Annals of the First Age present…

The Scepter and the Serpent  
A Gondolin Mystery

Part Three: Bite

The Lord of the Fountain surveyed his antechamber with pride at the efforts of his talented and discreet staff. As per his request, they had subtly transformed the room into a cozy parlor by adding a throw over the fireside divan, a tapestry to the western wall, and, most revealingly, a plush pelt before the hearth. Twin candelabra flanked the humble but hardy buffet of cured meats, sharp cheeses, toasted nut bread triangles, a basket overflowing with fruit, and a tray of honey cakes to sweeten the palate. The wine carafe had been replaced by a jug of cider, as Ecthelion would have clear heads rule that night; or, if not pristinely attuned, then reasonably lucid, especially given what had transpired between him and Glorfindel afore. 

In the wake of that earthquake kiss the previous night, the darkling elf could not pry his thoughts away from a relentless and exacting analysis of the viability of Glorfindel’s suit, nor could he help but become acutely alert to all of his friend’s impeccable attributes. Sleep had eluded him, his appetite had diminished, and he had seriously contemplated truancy from their shared mission, all due to being utterly, indecently consumed with curiosity, as well as with shock at his soul’s emphatic reaction to the golden elf’s brash overture, to the rare eloquence that shone from those sapphire eyes. 

If he had solved one mystery in the ensuing hours, it had been a most galling one indeed: Glorfindel loved him. No matter how skittish he had been in acknowledging it, no matter how he had diverted him with talk of courtship, patience, and propriety, those eyes had never once deceived him, regardless of the mercurial nature of the spirit that beamed through them. More astonishing still had been Ecthelion’s instinctive response to this insight into his friend’s heart: joy. Pure, unadulterated joy, of an intensity that he had never experienced before. It had confused him, this blitheness, for he had known unbearable tragedy in his life, the rush of ambition and the elation of triumph, but never happiness in its crudest form. Indeed, the Lord of the Fountain considered the emotion on par with communing with the gods, perhaps even a gift from their divine majesties, since it was as unprecedented as it was inconvenient. 

Yet how could he fail to religiously pursue it? How could he deny something so ineffably true? Why was this revealed to him now, and in such a blindsiding manner? The questions only compounded as he further reflected on the situation, until his absorption bordered on obsession. How long had Glorfindel regarded him thusly, or was it a recent development, a product of the complacency of their current commission? If he had been pining, then why keep this from him, when a word could have relieved him? Ecthelion was self-examined enough to offer his own answer, readily admitting that his friend’s advances would have been unwelcome in their earlier years. Furthermore, what exactly had led to their first night of intimacy? Had he perhaps been the aggressor, with Glorfindel unable to refuse him due to his care, yet too honorable to later paint an accurate portrait of the affair? Something about that scenario deserved further reflection, but there was hardly time at the moment to resurrect such bleary memories. 

In the wee hours of morn, his thoughts had turned tawdry, more explorative than honestly inquisitive. He had been overwhelmed by a vision of their coupling, of Glorfindel submitting to his scarlet caresses, as he must surely have done, otherwise Ecthelion would have been wickedly sore, for he had not played mare since his late adolescence and it was doubtful he would have done so when in his cups, however daunted his inhibitions. He had imagined stroking Glorfindel’s honeyed skin, fisting his fingers into that silken mane, lashing his tongue along that sinuous slope of neck, and pushing between those tautly muscled thighs. By that time, he had been mercilessly engorged, glaring proof of his rampant, long-repressed desire, on which he could not fail to act. 

Not when the potential consequences were so dire; discord, estrangement, and loneliness were the few he was willing to contemplate. Regardless, he was no coward to flee from such a challenge. Glorfindel had risked much in revealing himself, and he should be rewarded, but not so much as Ecthelion suspected he would be if he opened himself to the golden elf’s heart. It had long been theorized among their fellows that whomever won the title of Consort of the Golden Flower would find themselves ravished and lavished in equal measure. However bleak his early years had been, that was a fate he could readily succumb to. 

A curt knock at the door heralded his guest, who at his word sauntered in with something akin to trepidation, a reserve that ill-suited one accustomed to the charge. The very look of him at leisure appeared to brighten Glorfindel, though the creases still lining his brow betrayed his deductive mood, the riddle of Aredhel’s complicity in the crime evidently not resolved to his satisfaction. A wave of potent euphoria crashed over Ecthelion when their eyes met, such that he strode over to him as if compelled by an aphrodisiac scent, his face soft and his smile generous. A mixture of earthy musk and mild perspiration, as well as the faint trace of lightening fumes, since he was fresh from the thunderstorm outside, did indeed emanate from the Lord of the Golden Flower, though more enticingly than ere the darkling warrior remembered it. 

Before a syllable was uttered between them, he snatched hold of the clasp of Glorfindel’s cloak and rid him of this encumbrance, his hands brushing over those impossibly broad shoulders as he gathered up the cape. His friend assayed a look of bald wonderment at the tenderness of the gesture, at the shiver of sensation that prickled down his back, searching his face for some indication of how to comport himself from then on. Ecthelion could only gaze at him, directly and earnestly, enthralled by the harmony of his features as never before, as if some veil had been lifted to reveal the masterpiece behind. 

With a scapegrace grin that portended much for their evening, Glorfindel darted in to steal another quick kiss, the glint in his eyes in the seconds after roguishly unrepentant, especially given Ecthelion’s rough intake of breath just before. 

“Brute,” the Lord of the Fountain chided, but could not mask his pleasure. “That is twice you’ve usurped upon my person.” 

“You are free to wreak whatever retribution you see fit,” Glorfindel quipped, then swatted him on the rump as he swaggered by, awaiting no invitation as he headed straight for the buffet. 

“You may come to rue being so cavalier,” Ecthelion gamesomely warned him. 

“How I do hope so,” Glorfindel smirked, visibly reinvigorated by their flirtation. “May I?” 

“If you care to sate that particular appetite forthwith,” Ecthelion volleyed back, his own senses roused by their banter. If this was a glimpse of how it could be between them, caring *and* casual, an effortless exchange of affinity, fraternity, and passion that did not compromise them as leaders of the community, then how could he refuse to court such an ideal relation? “We here at the House of the Fountain do aim to provide for your every need.”

“But surely not at the expense of your own energies,” Glorfindel asserted, nodding towards the rest area. “Be seated. I will fill you a plate.” 

A resplendent one it was, heaping with Ecthelion’s every preference, from the chutney that he felt best accompanied his meat to the observant selection of cheeses. Far from being unnerved at his friend’s prescience, he acknowledged for himself how doting the golden elf had ever been; the beauty of the gesture was that it could have been accomplished for any one of their friends, as Glorfindel was ruled by such graces. Yet Ecthelion was the one benefiting from this excess of thoughtfulness, just as he would continue to do so for years to come, regardless of whether they remained comrades or dared to be more. Though he required no further encouragement, he relished this quality all the same, enchanted as he had never been before by one who until then had been his constant companion, but never meant so much as now, never so much more. 

Alas, there was royal business to attend to, and by the sobriety of Glorfindel’s mien as he ate, the weight of his burden had not yet been lifted, not even by their flirty exchange. 

“Let us dispense with courtly matters,” Ecthelion urged him. “What has come of your afternoon investigations?” 

Glorfindel chuckled wryly, but without mirth. 

“I believe I may have a sound theory,” he informed him. “Though I have yet to devise a means of testing it without alerting the guilty party to my suspicions. If I am correct, then more than one life may very well have been spared, at least for the present. One thing I did not fail to uncover is how base a creature Eol truly is. Whatever the outcome of our current mission, I suggest we confront the King, once he has recovered himself, about the threat this blackguard is posing to the realm.” 

The darkling warrior received this stoically, having been a longtime opponent of the King’s decision to try and make peace with his law-brother. 

“He is complicit, then, in this affair?” Ecthelion hotly inquired.

“I pray not,” Glorfindel warily replied. “It would simplify things enormously.” 

“But whom do you suspect, gwador?” the Lord of the Fountain all but demanded, though the familiar appellation slipped awkwardly from his tongue, of pithy significance given his lately emotion. 

To his surprise, Glorfindel cheered considerably, a mercurial glint repossessing his eyes. 

“Would you not wait on revelation and be edified by my theater of conjecture on the morrow?” the golden elf queried, twinkling with anticipation. 

“Not if you blunder and spoil all our efforts thus far,” Ecthelion stated plainly, then snickered at the mock wounded look foisted upon him. “Besides, I aim to earn equal credit and acclaim.” 

“None need be the wiser,” Glorfindel explained. “Methinks it will serve the drama better if you are unaware of what is being sought, if your objectivity is preserved and you observe the playing out with a fresh mind, to better identify the flaws in the timeline I will propose.”

“Indeed,” Ecthelion acquiesced, though he burned with intrigue. “But at least give me some indication of what will transpire. Will we interrogate someone? Or startle them by interrupting their daily routine? Do we seek one or many? Do you mean to confront the one responsible or to provoke him or her through another?” 

“I will say only this,” Glorfindel coyly responded, pausing to nibble on some nut bread to heighten the suspense. “The drama involves one who watched the entire evening unfold, but whom we have overlooked until now.” 

Stunned, Ecthelion could only gape dumbly at his friend, his thoughts racing towards an as yet untenable conclusion. Though he soon gave up, having learnt long ago that one mystery which would never be solved were the mischievous ways of the Lord of the Golden Flower. If he relinquished himself to the adventure, then all would be well. 

Revivified by his meal and by the success of his machinations, Glorfindel relaxed into his seat, indulging in an extended, felicitous perusal of Ecthelion’s angular features. The darkling elf did not evade the purity of his stare, but met this intensity head on, deeply touched to be the subject of such kindly meant scrutiny. In the scintillating fathoms of those sapphire eyes, he beheld the kaleidoscope of Glorfindel’s spirit, all the colors that shaded his character, all the intersecting motivations that conducted him through life. The reigning hue, however, was irrefutably love; it was the purpose that fuelled his light, the emotion that nourished his soul. 

Ecthelion desired nothing more than to be sustained by that strength of heart; thus he dismissed the last of his reservations and grazed the back of his palm down Glorfindel’s cheek. He closed the distance between them, cupping his friend’s face as he lured him into a slow, smoldering kiss. The golden warrior’s taste thoroughly tantalized him, such that he delved in past those succulent lips, exploring the savory cavity of his mouth and the delectable texture of his tongue. Soon, his body was so ravenous that he felt he could have devoured him whole, but settled for entwining his arms around that colossal torso, for reveling in the taut press of their muscled chests, even buffered as they were by layers of garments. His callused hands snuck down to fondle his meaty buttocks, a slow broiling need simmering in his groin as a result of the indelible heat between them. 

Everything about his gilded one enthralled him; the satin feel of his skin as he tucked his hands under his tunic and stroked up his sleek length of back, the raw growling sounds that purred up his throat as he was undone, the sheer might of those brawny arms cinched around him, the relentlessness of his caresses now that he had given irrevocable sway to his passion. Clashing thusly with Glorfindel was akin to being mauled by a lion, but he would have it no other way, since for the first time he felt equally matched with a lover – for that was what they would soon become if their fervor continued to progress. Little wonder that with their lucidity dulled and their inhibitions diminished they had all but pounced on one another. Once they had begun to kindle such a sultry fire, it could do naught but blaze, such did their spirits ignite when finally unleashed.

Having gorged himself on those kiss-savaged lips, on that incendiary mouth, Ecthelion dealt them a tempering smooch, then gently extricated himself from their embrace. His gaze redolent with warmth and welcome, he glanced meaningfully towards the pelts before the hearth, then attempted to tug Glorfindel to his feet. To his dismay, the Lord of the Golden Flower resisted, his patrician features mired in ambivalence, though his irrepressible desire burned through. He bowed forward, pressing his baking brow against their clasped hands, in a manner so penitent, so beseeching that Ecthelion’s reason roared back into the forefront of his mind. 

“Melethen,” Glorfindel pleaded, his voice still husky with need. “We cannot.” 

“Do not dare speak the word ‘duty’ whilst we are under such straits,” the darkling warrior censured him, struggling to slow his heaving breaths. 

“Though that is a concern,” Glorfindel conceded, lifting his head that their eyes might lock. “Tis rather a fault of mine that may prevent us from… Ecthelion, I have failed you.” 

“How now?” the Lord of the Fountain inquired, irritated that such trifles delayed them. “But we have yet to…” Thunderstruck by an insight that had heretofore eluded him, he instinctively released the golden elf’s hand, turning inward to puzzle out the revelation. Interpreting this gesture for a rejection, Glorfindel shut his eyes that he might figure out a means of repairing the damage wrought of his capriciousness, though there was hardly need. Within minutes, Ecthelion had resolved himself, lowering back onto the divan that he might address his lover directly, as was ever his wont. “I should have known. Loyal, honorable, incomparable Glorfindel… Tis my own dunderheadedness that has invariably complicated such a simple affair.” 

“Gwador,” Glorfindel rallied, formalizing his posture that he might deliver an elegant apology. “You are by no means to blame-“

“Hush yourself, *melethen*,” Ecthelion gently silenced him, ensuring his complicity with a commanding kiss. “My fear of true intimacy prevented me from realizing what should have been obvious all along. You, my steadfast one, would never have succumbed to the folly of drink nor the ravings of the flesh if an ounce of lucidity was left you. You would never bed me without my true consent, proven by your reticence now, when only a meager, well-meant deception lies between us, a complot we will both laugh about in our dotage, but you would not have me under any pretence but honest and utter desire.” 

“I would not,” Glorfindel concurred, radiant with contrition. “I could never.” 

“Indeed,” Ecthelion concluded. “Thus, you did not. We have never been intimate, have we?” 

“Nay,” Glorfindel admitted, tensing for the blow to come. “Though I earnestly have never felt more so with another than whilst you were slumbering in my arms.” 

“So it appears,” Ecthelion beamed, weaving their sculpted forms together anew, though resisting the heat that reared up. “One can only imagine how compelling it will be when the subject of your tenderness is conscious.” 

“Then I am forgiven?” the golden elf queried, in the tone that most approximated trepidation. 

“You have done no wrong in awakening me to…” Ecthelion sighed contentedly, then gave him a poignant squeeze. “To what you had so long deserved, but were selfishly deprived of. To the riches to be mined in my own heart. An expedition we will together embark upon once this royal madness is ended. You are right to temper us. I would not further neglect any part of you, whether partaking of your erotic person or perusing your genial intellect.” 

“But what of my lonesome spirit?” Glorfindel whispered against his temple. “That, too, seeks the luxury of your keeping.” 

“Then it best prepare to be indecently spoilt,” Ecthelion assured him, once again claiming those florid lips for his own. 

* * *

Twas upon the first fair day in a fortnight that Glorfindel found himself once again enclosed in the austere banquet hall that had launched the investigation, no less oppressive for the stark shafts of light streaking down from the high windows. The dungeon atmosphere did little to put his fellow guests at ease, though this would abet the bit of theatre he had impulsively planned. While he was inwardly praying to the skies that the script he had imagined would play out, for his King would be present and he did not wish him to think his trust misplaced, he enacted the part of calm, confident host, directing each person to their proper seat that the drama might unfold. 

His beacon amidst the brume that afternoon was the one whom he might soon come to name *his* Ecthelion, his noble, comely visage the personification of support and encouragement however concerned the Lord of the Fountain himself was that this gambit would fail to unmask their culprit. Enacting the role of Salgant, a conceit to merriment that Glorfindel could not quite restrain himself from making, his beloved had not quite embraced the spirit of his character as yet, for he sat in quiet observation with his usual poise, neglecting to jabber on incessantly about insipid trivialities in the overloud whisper of a career gossip. No matter what transpired that day, the promise of Ecthelion’s arms to retire to was beyond alluring, the memory of that scarlet kiss and searing touch the sweetest of motivators. Yet he nonetheless shouldered the burden of his darkling one’s approval, of defending both their reputations against what could still prove to be a travesty of epic proportions. 

The rest of the assembly evidenced their willingness to indulge this whim of his to varying degrees. The King’s regal features, while cautiously avid with interest, were also shrouded by resignation over the sentence he may have to pass that very day and the potential ramifications thereof. As requested, he had worn a similarly ornate brooch, though one of far lesser value. Idril was typically bemused, as she was by all of Glorfindel’s schemes, though also wary of betraying her mirth to her sober companions. Aredhel, though jittery with nerves, was raptly focused by her suspicion that the blame may yet come to lie squarely on her. Such a beleaguered lady had little opportunity for vengeance against her abuser and might wreak some of her own if she felt the least bit under scrutiny; a volatility that Glorfindel carefully monitored lest one of her eruptions of rancor scared the true culprit away. Penlodh, Duilin, and Enerdhil were not represented, as they were too distant from the King during that portion of the meal to thieve anything. After much coaxing, Maeglin had been lured away from his pile of rocks, grappling onto the only place of security, upon his royal uncle’s lap. 

The Lord of the Golden Flower took his seat at the head of the table, in place of Eol, that their noontime meal might commence. As Aredhel served them all a bowl of somewhat anemic-looking soup, product of the haste of its commission, no doubt, the guests exchanged uncomfortable glances, unsure of what they were meant to do. Glorfindel gestured for them to eat, but they remained tense, wondering what tricks their mercurial host had plotted and what would come of them. Idril was the first to tire of this nonsense, and thus to protest, in her own inimitable fashion. 

“Now then, my dear Chief Detective,” she pointedly remarked to him. “What are we about? Is there a particular topic you would introduce, or are we verily supposed to invent conversation like to those we aim to mimic? If so, I will play Idril, and ask if everyone will be attending the harvest ball? Salgant?”

“For certes, Your Highness,” Ecthelion answered, with none of the vocal tics he had affected earlier, in private, much to Glorfindel’s disappointment. “Though have you heard that Lord Egalmoth will be escorting Glinfiriel of the House of the Swallow, with the approval of her Adar, his fellow?” 

“I had not!” Idril exclaimed, genuinely enthralled by this piece of news. “Is that truly so, Ecthelion?” 

“Perhaps,” his beloved demurred, to further entice her curiosity. 

“And here I have relied on serving maids and house masters for such insights,” Idril delightedly proclaimed. “When all I might have done is flirt with a few high-ranked warriors for the choicest snippets of information.” 

“I daresay our guardians are better preoccupied by their duties,” Turgon suggested, a mild irritation to his tone. “Verily, Glorfindel, are we to banter about trifles the afternoon long? Or is there some method to this madness of yours?” 

Though his King had somewhat preemptively tired of the theatrics, their attention had been diverted long enough for the snake to slither out of its nest. He had only to distract them a few moments longer, and he might shut the trap. 

“I meant no dishonor, sire,” he reassured his testy sovereign, then waited until Aredhel took to her chair. “I shall explain my reasoning forthwith, leading to the revelation we have all been anticipating.”

All four foisted hawkish eyes upon him, which, though a touch discomfiting, was a tribute to their commitment to justice. With any luck, they would all soon be chuckling at the severity with which they had confronted a problem that was, in the end, no more complex than an elfling’s playground game. 

“As eager as I am to attend you, Lord Glorfindel,” the King interrupted him. “I would ask why our suspects are not present at this gathering, since this most concerns them. I also do not like to think that such a villain might escape us, if word of our activities reaches him.” 

“Believe me, Majesty, the culprit could not be closer at hand, nor more securely held,” Glorfindel replied, to the astonishment of all. 

“Then they are being held under guard somewhere near?” Aredhel breathlessly asked, desperate to be cleared of any lingering charges against her or her family. 

“They are pillars of the city all,” Glorfindel declared. “The elders among the House lords, of unimpeachable virtue, so far as Ecthelion and I can ascertain. They are to-a-one innocent of this crime, thus spared the harshest of their city’s judgment.” 

A rumble of disquiet thundered through the assembly at this controversial statement, such that Maeglin scrambled off his uncle’s legs and skittered over to the far side of the mantle to conceal himself in its shadow. Glorfindel smirked at the telltale sound of stone scraping against stone. 

“Impossible!” Aredhel all but wailed, stricken by the straits this placed her in. “Brother, it was in the name of peace that we invited you into our home-“ 

“Hush now,” Glorfindel tempered her, then glanced meaningfully at his King. “Sire, it seems you have misplaced yet another of your jewels.” 

All then gaped at Turgon’s tunic, from which yet another brooch had been surreptitiously snatched. 

“Fiend!” the King bellowed, incensed at this latest desecration, until Glorfindel placed a finger over his lips, then pointed silently at the mantle. 

There for all to see was Maeglin sneaking another treasure away, as oblivious to the treachery of his act as he was to the scrutiny of his elders. 

“Ioneth!” Aredhel yelped anew, then rushed over to retrieve both him and the considerable trove he had amassed, Valar-gifted brooch included. 

Once the King had recovered himself from the shock, he managed a chuckle at his own expense, the relief shining off his noble features. His city had indeed been spared. Idril, for her part, was biting so forcefully on her lips to keep from giggling that they were crimson, while Ecthelion just shook his head in bafflement, then smiled warmly at Glorfindel, a gesture which was stealthily returned, as was the scepter to its rightful owner. 

“He does indeed have a penchant for shiny things, my Lady,” Glorfindel quipped, effortlessly brightening the mood. 

While poor Maeglin would doubtlessly be deprived of his baubles until he learnt to share, the Lord of the Golden Flower was pleased that no one would be cast over the western wall that night, at least not as a result of his investigation. Rather, his own evening would be a far more intimate one, especially since he expected he and Ecthelion would be granted a month’s leave for their diligent and dedicated service to the realm. 

A more propitious resolution none could have hoped for; thus it was with a champion’s smile that he locked eyes with his King and beseeched his far more benevolent brand of judgment. 

* * * 

An insurgent, and rather mercenary, truth be told, ray of sunlight woke Glorfindel from heavy, sated slumber, bedazzling his bleary eyes as they opened to the scintillating morn. The glare momentarily distracted him from the most glorious realization: that he was cocooned in Ecthelion’s bed, in Ecthelion’s bedchamber, in Ecthelion’s suite of rooms in the House of the Fountain. The maidenly fancy of his previous thought was quite decadently undercut by the carnal abuse his body had so enthusiastically suffered, for his thighs were strained from wrapping themselves around a lank waist and muscular buttocks, his wrists creaked from overexertion, his jaw was sore from treating his darkling lover to a variety of tawdry delights, and that exquisite but unmentionable place ached most emphatically from impassioned bores into his sacred core. 

In short, Glorfindel had never felt so exceptionally used, so thoroughly mauled, ridden so expertly well that he might verily birth a foal, such did he revel in playing mare to Ecthelion’s monumentally endowed stud. 

Their evening had begun with whispered troths and ended with bays of rapture. After a leisurely meal in Ecthelion’s study, through which Glorfindel had detailed his discovery of the treasure trove and his interview of Maeglin the previous afternoon, they had strolled through the moonlit gardens, their banter teasing but their glances reverential. The silver spokes and cascading rush of the fountains sparkled under the canopy of stars, but no glint lured him in such as the one in his beloved’s eyes, which raked his brawny frame in a patently predatory manner. There was no explicit invitation to proceed to his chambers, only fingers stealthily entwined with his own and a purposeful tug towards the back stairs, to which he was almost demurely escorted, in the moments before Ecthelion pounced. 

In the countless times he had imagined that particular rite of passage, he had never envisioned them so rambunctious, racing up to the landing like schoolboys returning home from their lessons, smashing into the banister for an incendiary grope, stumbling over the top steps then collapsing into a heap of grappling limbs and devouring lips, giddy from the sublime surge of feeling that left them thoroughly intoxicated, far more so than an overabundance of drink could ever have done. There, on the hallway floor, Glorfindel had ripped Ecthelion’s tunic off his arms, subsequent to having been violently divested of his breeches and fondled into thick, insistent erection. Yet the sight of that sculpted chest had only further incensed him, such that he had gingerly tossed his beloved over and clamored atop him, all the better to torment his dusky nipples into a violet pucker. 

Ecthelion, meanwhile, had shucked his own breeches that he might grind his emphatically engorged groin into his golden one’s glossy nethers, panting huskily at the indelible pleasure of this first erotic act. While Glorfindel had shut his eyes as a result of the ferocity of the sensation, Ecthelion had instead gazed up at him, searching out the eloquent stare that had first provoked him. Unfulfilled in this, he had slowed his gyrations that he might steal a sultry kiss, one that reminded them both of the heart implicit in even their most salacious maneuvers. 

This had sobered them some, but not enough to smite the flame of desire. Instead, they had retired to the Lord of the Fountain’s bedchamber, then had proceeded to undress one another with due tenderness, kindling the heat of their souls as well as the blaze in their loins. Glorfindel would never forget Ecthelion’s poignant look as he first beheld him bare and wanting, the fever he betrayed whilst being stroked by the golden elf, the emotion in his eyes as he painstakingly claimed him, conveying both his sense of privilege at being able to command him so and his deep honor at being entrusted the care of such a vulnerable area, even on one as colossal of might as the Lord of the Golden Flower. For all their patience and sensual generosity, their quickening would not long be leashed, as neither had ever known such incandescent ecstasy afore and both were eager to sing with it. 

Though they had later delved further into their endless reservoirs of passion, they had emerged from that initial tangle edified by the incontrovertible rightness of their love, by the undeniable synchronicity that reigned within. They had recognized one another for what the Valar had long ago decreed they were, but neither dared speak of it, least the spell be broken. 

Peeking out from behind the safeguard of the coverlet, Glorfindel was disappointed to find the bedchamber as empty as the bed he lay in, the only trace of Ecthelion the effervescent scent that wafted off the massive pillow they had shared. A prickle of concern tingled at the nape of his neck, threatening to bolt down his spine. He could not, he *would not* be like all the others, abandoned amidst the very sheets they had soiled, servant to the housemaster’s compassion. Surely by virtue of their friendship alone, Ecthelion owed him more than this, though he did not believe himself more worthy than his former lovers, no matter his depth of heart. He scoured the night table, the wardrobe, the mirror, for a slip of paper, a tucked-in scroll, any trace of his darkling one’s consideration, but there was nary a scrap to be found. Flopping back into his downy berth, Glorfindel uttered a muffled curse as he yanked the coverlet back over his head in defiance of his suspicions. 

Twas folly itself to embrace such assumptions before all the facts were disclosed. Indeed, he would never have solved the mystery if he had considered all the evidence as presented to him, solid proof of a treachery plot. Still, he grew morose at the thought of having to recommence his suit (for it was unfathomable to him that he should quit Ecthelion altogether), of the awkwardness and avoidance that would surely ensue, of the further length of time he would have to assay a measure of patience well beyond his usual capabilities, especially after such an incredible night. His mouth was rife with bitterness when he considered the endless months without Ecthelion’s kiss, caresses, sweetness, sensual favors. His deprivation would be the more acute for having sampled these delicacies, for having supped at his prince’s table. He was exhausted by the very idea of venturing beyond the bounds of the bed, of skulking away from the remnants of his lordly lover’s heat, thus he enforced a measure of calm upon himself and fell into a light doze, the better to ignore the imminent tap of the housemaster’s knuckles at the door. 

He was startled into wakefulness by the smash of a hard body into his side, the resultant snickers possibly the most gorgeous sound that had ever tickled his ears. His brow was bussed quite noisily, then a pair of silken lips covered his own, precociously demanding that he match their fervor. Before he could properly focus his eyes, the sheets were thrown over and his bareness exposed to the sunlight’s scorch, though he was suitably diverted by the sight of Ecthelion haloed by that blast of light, such that his silhouette appeared otherworldly. 

“My, but you do tax one’s patience,” the Lord of the Fountain complained, though a chuckle quavered under his tone. “Lazing about like a bear in late hibernation. Such a pristine day should not be a second more neglected. So come, my burly one! A sumptuous fast-breaking awaits our leisure on the balcony beyond, as does a rather iconic view of our city fair.” 

“The balcony?” Glorfindel groggily queried, then inwardly berated himself for his thickness, as this was not the first time he would be received there. Yet he made no mention of his misgivings to his beloved, who was still radiant with afterglow from the revels that had ended hours before. “Am I to stalk out there wearing only my love-bites, or might I borrow a robe?” 

“Enticing as it would be to admire your majesty the day long,” Ecthelion coyly responded. “I would not prematurely flaunt my good fortune before my courtiers. There is, indeed, a robe of aquamarine hue awaiting you, delivered in the early hours by a thoughtful page. Verily, I hope you recompense your housemaster for such foresight.” 

“Not so well as I shall repay you for a rapturous evening once I have refueled,” Glorfindel wickedly insinuated. “Do not think I will forever bend to your will, moren vain, no matter how riveting your domination. I’ve a commanding presence all my own, as you will soon discover.” 

“So long as there is a forever,” Ecthelion murmured, locking eyes with the one who adored him and stroking a tender touch down the side of his face. “You may rule me in every way.” 

Elated by this impromptu oath, Glorfindel claimed his mouth anew, enthralled by every precious aspect of his own priceless treasure - his indefatigable spirit, gallant heart, and uniquely beautiful soul. 

 

Finis


End file.
